


Familiar Faces

by memyself



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Blind Eye Society, rip me to shreds im ready
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 10:34:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10534701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memyself/pseuds/memyself
Summary: Fiddleford Appreciation MonthWeek Three: Society Of The Blind EyeThe society captures a troublesome guest and Stanley has some convincing to do.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to Danvssomethingorother and the organizers of Fiddleford Appreciation month  
> I'm sorry my submissions are so late

Fiddleford stepped down as chairman of the Society late last year under the guise he couldn't stand another case of misplaced keys. In reality, the club had strayed from his initial intent. That is to say, Fiddleford didn’t have the heart to go kidnapping folk for the so-called greater good.  
No shame in that.  
He got to cut back his hours and spend more time with his son, but he would still lend a hand organizing the memory canister room in his down time. It just so happened that, occasionally he’ll be in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

 

Tonight he just so happened to be stocking canisters in the hall of the forgotten when the boys brought one of the townsfolk in for re-education. Fiddleford heard the gruff shouting grow louder as the volunteers ushered their capture forward. He sure was a wily one by the sounds of it. Three red-cloaked men were struggling to keep the swearing man at bay as he thrashed and strained under the confines of a blindfold.  
Fiddleford cringed to hear some of the terrible things firing out of the man's mouth. 

 

Waving one of the younger volunteers over Fiddleford hoped to get the full story.  
It turns out the guy was fighting off a swarm of litter bugs when the society found him.  
“It sounds to me like my friends here saved your life” He called to the man hidden beneath the  
cloth bag, and his ranting paused for a moment. God forbid he recognized Fiddleford’s voice but whatever the cause, the man below the tarp stopped fighting, his voice sounding gravelly as he called them cowards. Well, Fiddleford couldn't quite contest that could he.  
“Save your breath; we’ll make this quick.”  
The other members look to him with relief, waiting for a signal to continue. With a sigh, Fiddleford guided the party away from the Hall of the Forgotten into the large circular room which housed the memory erasing chair. 

 

Fiddleford tries his best to admire the room, but the man beneath the blindfold wrestles against the confines of their repurposed electric chair “No no no! Get your stinking hands off me!” The others wrestle to hold him down and - hell the man might even break free. He’s short and stout, but he’s got a bit of muscle. He’s a fighter, Fiddleford will give him that. 

“We won’t hurt you; you have my word.” The stranger quips that 'his word ain’t-’ well it’s of no real importance, to phrase it lightly. “Right now it’s all you’ve got. So shut your yap” Fiddleford bites back, letting his frustration with himself bleed out to scare this poor fellow further. The quicker this is over, the faster he can erase this hollow guilt from his conscience. 

He tries to calm himself to take a different tact, “You know what’s strange?” He steps closer, standing in front of the captor with his arms crossed “Most people get around to asking questions by now. Like, 'what do you want?’ or 'Where am I?’” He shrugs, noting “it’s just an observation” He doesn’t expect an answer, but the man says, “I guess you get used to it.”

The showmanship works on most of the other members, who furrow their brows, sending curious looks to one another but Fiddleford rolls his eyes. There’s something about the tough guy act, that wide sitting stance or - maybe it’s the accent, but something about this guy grinds Fiddleford’s gears. “Well?” He glares at the volunteers who quickly nod and scramble to pull off the cloak and ready the memory gun.

 

Yeah, he’s a fighter.  
He’s a square looking fellow, big shoulders, sharp jaw, with a previously broken red tinged nose. The sort of greasy, bulky types who grew up picking on a scrawny guy like Fiddleford. Maybe that’s why the sight of him makes Fiddleford’s skin crawl.  
“Yowza, a real cult” The man smirks, wriggling in his seat to get comfy. Fiddleford urges him to be quiet, but his warning goes ignored, “So what’s the deal? God, Satan, money? It’s always about the money right?”  
“Give me that” Fiddleford gestures to the volunteer holding the gun, glancing offhandedly to his friends. The rest seem to subtlety nod before taking their leave.

 

He looks down at his creation, admiring the way its golden surface glistens in the low lighting. His finger catches the canister label.  
What kind of name is Pines anyway?  
He looks over at the stranger only to find himself unnerved by the intensity of the other man's stare. His eyes are weathered, brown and dull and Fiddleford wants to apologize.  
He only wanted to help.  
“You’re F, right?” Stan Pines has a strange sort of look in his eyes, he leans forward in his chair, shuffling against the hold of his restraints. 

Without a word, Stan seems to find his answers “F, man whatever’s going down here is your business. I won’t tell a soul but listen-” His jaw hangs speechless, his eyes dart between Fiddleford and the door, “I need your help.”

 

Fiddleford’s mind races as he ponders the chances of this being a trick. The act of desperate, scared, obviously pervasive and keenly intelligent man. Maybe he recognized Fiddleford from town, their both locals after all. He sticks to the script, “What is it you have seen?” Stan shakes his head, repeating, “You’ve got to listen to me. I know you helped my brother, you- you’re the guy in the ugly green shirts, right? Hey everyone made mistakes in the disco era” His hands gesture wildly within their confines, Fiddleford can only blink back at him completely dumbstruck. 

Stan curses, “You helped him, now you gotta help me” He raises his voice before thinking better of it and both men take a moment to listen. They only continue in the absence of footsteps.  
“What’s your brother's name?” Fiddleford can't remember another Pine's in their society, but perhaps this young man hopes to join their group. After all, this guy looks like he has plenty of forgetting to do. Stan seems to struggle with the simple question and with that, Fiddleford’s quite sure this was all some elaborate rouse. 

He spins the dial of his gun to include 'litter bugs’ barely listening when Stan answers,  
“It’s Stanford!” he rambling on, his words turning to white noise as Fiddleford's mind seems to tick and stutter on that name like the skipping of a record.  
Stanford Pines?  
-  
-  
“You can’t tell anyone? Y'hear me, no one can hear about this, and you’re gonna work with me, right? You’re the only person who-” Stan pauses to watch the skinny weirdo carefully because though Stan might have thought it utterly impossible, the guy looks even worse than he did a couple of seconds ago. “You alright pal?” He asks nervously as the man in front of him turns a disturbing shade of pale, staring at the floor and the way his eyes twitching is really starting to freak Stan out.  
This is probably a bad time to ask for F’s backstory. 

Stan should have seen this coming. How else could the happy go lucky college student in his brother's graduation photos turn into a cloak wearing gold gun wielding wackjob? F's lost it, for whatever reason and his hands are beginning to play with the gun, he's fiddling with the trigger, rubbing the barrel into his hair and mumbling unintelligibly.  
Stan decides this would be a good time to get going. 

“Anyway, if you want to lend a hand give me a call.” The straps are a cinch to get out of, even easier than handcuffs “Good luck with your... eh... Halloween club” He sidesteps away from the crazy mumbling man, spotting an easy get-away to his left which should take him back to the museum. If he backtracks the route he memorized in the car on the way here, he should be home before sunrise. He makes a quick escape up the stairs forcibly ignoring the flash of light or bright electric spark he hears behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> For the record- I don't think Fiddleford would tolerate kidnapping and the sort of tricks employed by Ivan. Still, it was necessary to get both him and Stan in the same place at the same time.


End file.
